Did You Fall In Love With Me?
by UnabashedVixen
Summary: Just what did Doctor Turner write to Sister Bernadette while she was in the sanitarium? Each chapter is a letter, accompanied by Doctor Turner's thoughts and actions. There will likely be 10 chapters total. Read and review, if you please!
1. Chapter 1

Doctor Turner stood by the car as he watched Sister Bernadette's form retreat towards the sanitarium. He struggled to rein in his emotions – fear, terror even, warred with the logic that told him the same thing he had told her: the triple treatment could be miraculous. But she wasn't just another patient. He was honest enough with himself to admit that she was much more to him than just another patient. But could he ever hope to be more than just a doctor to her?

 _Sunday, August 17, 1958_

 _Dear Sister Bernadette,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well, or at least, as well as can be expected. I know how grueling the triple treatment can be. Things in Poplar are much the same since you left – Mrs. Smith delivered her twins safely, with a little help from Nurse Lee and me. I know Mrs. Smith missed your calm, caring competence though – and so did I._

 _Timothy asks after you often. I've encouraged him to write you himself, but you know how boys can be. He's growing again, I think. He's been eating me out of house and home, though he complains every time I attempt to cook something. He says to tell you that you must get better before the next three-legged race opportunity – apparently my services are no longer required in this area._

 _We both wish for you to get well as soon as possible, so that you may return to Nonnatus._

 _Yours,_

 _P. Turner_


	2. Chapter 2

As Doctor Turner placed the forceps into the autoclave in the maternity home, he cast his mind back to another forceps delivery: the Carter twins. He and Sister Bernadette has attended hundreds of births together, maybe even thousands, but that delivery changed everything, he thought. Meg Carter had slapped Sister Bernadette across the face, hard, and Doctor Turner had felt a fury rise up in him as he warned Meg not to interfere again. Afterwards, he told himself it was the fact that she'd struck a nun, that he would have reacted the same had it been Sister Julienne or Sister Evangelina, but now he knew better. After the birth, as he and Sister Bernadette has stood outside the flat, adrenaline waning and exhaustion setting in, he'd offered her his cigarette. Why had he done it? An overabundance of courtesy? Again, he told himself he'd have offered the same to the other Sisters, but he knew that wasn't true. He couldn't imagine either of them taking the cigarette from his hand. Before it had happened, he couldn't imagine Sister Bernadette taking it either, but then her tiny hand had taken the Henley from his, and suddenly she was a woman. The habit and wimple had seemed to disappear, and there she was in front of him. Looking back on it, he realized that was the moment he was well and truly lost.

 _Sunday, August 24, 1958_

 _Dear Sister Bernadette,_

 _Things in Poplar remain much the same, though the weather has turned rainy. Tim and the other boys from Cubs are getting into all kinds of mischief due to cabin fever. I try to remember we were all young once._

 _Mrs. Reilly had a baby boy, after 36 hours of labour and a transfer to the maternity home. They are both doing well. I am sorry to tell you that Mrs. Lawson miscarried in the 24_ _th_ _week. I am sorry to write such sad news, but thought you'd want to know how your patients are. They all miss you, as do Timothy and I._

 _Yours,_

 _P. Turner_


	3. Chapter 3

Doctor Turner stared straight ahead, lost in thought. It had been almost three weeks since he had taken Sister Bernadette to the sanitarium, and he had not heard a word from or about her. He'd written, but had had no response. Was she well enough to read his letters? After three weeks of the triple treatment, he knew she should be. But she might be too exhausted to answer. Or she might not want to answer him. Perhaps she threw his letters away, as soon as she saw his handwriting. It hadn't escaped his notice that she'd been keeping her distance from him in the days before she went into the sanitarium… in the days since the summer fete. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to think of that day. That way lay madness. _She's a nun!_ His mind screamed at him. _You can't be in love with a nun! What could you possibly be thinking? What do you think, she's going to divorce God and throw herself into your arms? Get a grip Turner!_

The truth was, lately, all he could think about was the few times he and Sister Bernadette had touched. Her hand grazing his when she took the cigarette from him. Her holding out her injured hand for him to inspect. Trying to remain calm and completely professional when examining her, trying to keep it together when he heard crackling in both her lungs. Trying not to notice her slip, or the smoothness of her skin, or how close to him she was. He took another deep breath. He had to stop thinking of her this way. She was a colleague, that was all. There could never be anything more between them, and he was simply torturing himself thinking anything else.

 _Sunday, August 31, 1958_

 _Dear Sister Bernadette,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well, and that your treatment is going well. We have not had any news of you in Poplar, or at least, I have not. I know you must be very tired and hope you are getting enough rest._

 _Mrs. Bates delivered a healthy baby girl on Tuesday. Sometimes I still marvel the changes the National Health has brought – a safe delivery after pre-eclampsia in the maternity home was unthinkable when I started practicing._

 _Nurse Miller told me they expect Nurse Noakes home any day now. I wonder what stories she'll have to tell about the wonders of Africa – I'll pass along all the highlights the next time I write._

 _I hope you'll write, if you are up to it. Timothy and I would both love to hear from you._

 _Yours,_

 _P. Turner_


	4. Chapter 4

"Dad, Dad, look what I found on the window ledge!" Timothy's voice called out to him as soon as he came through the door. Patrick felt a familiar pang of guilt at how often the boy was left to his own devices. _Children are resilient_ he reminded himself, not for the first time. Against his will (and better judgement), his thoughts turned, as they so often did these days, to Sister Bernadette, to her almost-maternal relationship with Tim. The memory of cheering for her and Tim in the three-legged race came unbidden, thoughts of a day his mind returned to over and over despite his best intentions to put it out of his memory forever. The recollection of her hand in his, of his moment of madness when he kissed her fingers, of how she had turned away from him, and yet he thought she had not seemed angry, just bound by her vows. How that moment haunted him.

"Dad, did you hear me? Come and see what I found?" Tim's voice was insistent. Patrick shook himself out of his reverie (a sensation that was becoming all to frequent, despite his promising himself he was not going to think of her anymore), and went to his son. Timothy was holding a large, seemingly dead, butterfly.

"Well, that's quite something! Where did you find it?"

Timothy replied, exasperated, "On the window ledge, I said! I wonder how it died. Can you have a look and find out?"

"Well, butterflies aren't exactly my specialty." He gently took the insect from Tim and inspected it more closely. "Its wings aren't broken, and I don't see any punctures or obvious injuries. Perhaps it died of natural causes."

"I know!" Tim's voice was excited. "I'll send it to Sister Bernadette and ask the doctors in the santorum to find out how it died."

"Sanitarium," Patrick corrected, his heart having jumped a little at Tim's mention of Sister Bernadette. He thought for a moment. He'd tried not to read too much into still not having had a response to his letters, but he couldn't help feeling confused and a little hurt. Perhaps she would appreciate hearing from Timothy more than him? Perhaps what had passed between them before she left was preventing her from replying? Perhaps she wasn't reading his letters at all?

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Tim. Why don't you find a box for it, and you can write her a little note."

 _Wednesday, September 3, 1958_

 _Dear Sister Bernadette,_

 _I'm sorry to say I have no stories from Africa to report – Chummy is not home yet. Fred has purchased a scooter for Nonnatus, but I don't think he knows how to ride it – I've seen him sitting on it, but that's all. I'm curious to see if it becomes a part of the routine at Nonnatus -perhaps by the time you get home, bicycles will be a thing of the past._

 _Nurse Franklin says you are doing well and on your way to a full recovery. I am relieved to hear it. I'm glad to know you are well enough for visitors._

 _I'm not sure if you're receiving my letters, or if you are, if they're welcome. In the absence of any word for you, I will continue to keep you abreast of the news here. Please write back, if you can._

 _Yours,_

 _P. Turner_


	5. Chapter 5

Patrick stared straight ahead, mesmerized by the windshield wipers swinging back and forth, back and forth, in the nighttime rain. Thoughts of Sister Bernadette filled his imagination, try as he might to keep them out. He had promised himself, that he would put thought of her out of his mind, but there they were. All day, as he went about his rounds, memories would come, unbidden. The soft skin of her hand, how tiny it was held in his. The embroidered edges of her slip. Her wry smile. The way her steady presence made him feel safe and supported during deliveries.

He thought back to his conversation with Nurse Franklin in the kitchen of the parish hall, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he recalled how hard he'd tried to seem nonchalant when he'd asked about Sister Bernadette. Had she noticed? Had his surprise at finding out she'd been writing to the others showed? Did she know how he felt? Did they all know? He could imagine the nurses, giggling behind his back, at the idea of a washed up old sawbones in love with a beautiful young nun. He tried to imagine the reaction of Sister Julienne, and couldn't. Sister Evangelina would have some choice words for him, he was sure.

"Are you sad, Dad?" Tim's voice broke his hypnosis, and he wondered just how long he'd been staring into nothingness. He hadn't done this since Marianne had died.

"How could I be sad when I've got you?" And it was true. After Marianne, Patrick had assumed he'd be alone. After a time, he'd made his peace with that, and he had Timothy, and his work, which kept him too busy to be lonely. Until now. There was a hole in his life now, and he didn't know if he'd ever be able to fill it again.

 _Sunday, September 7, 1958_

 _Dear Sister,_

 _I hope you are feeling better day by day. Nurse Noakes has arrived home from Sierra Leone, replete with souvenirs for Tim (a drum) and me (a mask she assured me was from the tribe's medicine man). I know I promised you the highlights of her stories, but I suspect I will not do them justice. Plus, I know she's looking forward to telling you all her news when you are released. I hope that will be soon. We all miss you here in Poplar, me most of all I believe._

 _Mrs. Coyle was safely delivered of a baby girl (5 girls! I pity her poor husband, though he seems a good sport about it), and Mrs. Bennett had a healthy baby boy (almost 10 pounds!)._

 _Timothy says to tell you he hopes the doctors were able to determine a cause of death for the butterfly he sent. I'm not sure if I should be encouraging him to follow in my footsteps or not._

 _Yours,_

 _P. Turner_


	6. Chapter 6

Patrick stood by the post box. _Be brave, man!_ he urged himself, and dropped the letter through the slot. He told himself he was just writing to Sister Bernadette to keep her abreast of the news from Poplar, but the truth was he was writing (twice a week now!) to feel connected to her. The knowledge that she was writing back to the others, but not to him, was perplexing. Was she angry at him? She hadn't seemed so, when he took her to the sanitarium. Perhaps she wished to keep her distance, and he was making that more difficult. A tiny, quiet voice inside him whispered _She feels for you as you do for her, that's why she's keeping her distance. She can't acknowledge what's between us, so she's saying nothing._ Oh, how he wished that were the case. Sometimes, in the weeks before she went away, he sensed that his feelings might be reciprocated. There were moments when she looked at him, and suddenly the air between them was electric with possibility. But then she'd pulled away, and he had to think it was because of her vows. She was a nun. That would never change, could never change.

 _Wednesday, September 10, 1958_

 _Dear Sister,_

 _I continue to hope you are well, though I have not heard from you and don't know if you are reading my letters. I fancy my good wishes for you will be felt regardless of whether you read my words._

 _You missed a bit of excitement this week – a patient gave birth at Nonnatus House! A West Indian woman apparently called for help but was waylaid by Sister Monica Joan. So, she went to Nonnatus House while in labour, and gave birth on the floor in the hall. The nurses were in quite a titter over it, though I gather Sister Monica Joan has now been banned from answering the telephone. I imagine that is for the best. Sometimes it's hard to remember when she was the most capable midwife in Poplar. Speaking of which, I miss Poplar's current most capable midwife, and hope you are able to return to us soon._

 _Yours,_

 _P. Turner_


	7. Chapter 7

Patrick stepped into the flat and closed the door behind him, a sigh of relief escaping him. Rounds were finished, and he was not on call for once. The whole evening stretched before him. Timothy was at the table, doing his homework. The smell of a steak and kidney pie filled the room. Thank goodness it wasn't Thursday, and he and Tim wouldn't have to shift for themselves. He was getting a little sick of fish and chips, and Tim had made his opinion of his father's cooking abundantly clear.

"How goes the battle, son?" he asked Tim cheerfully.

"Fine," Tim replied. "Fractions. I'm just about done."

"Great. I'll just go change and wash up, and we can eat." Patrick went down the hall to his room. He took off his jacket, carefully hanging it up in the closet. He went to the bathroom, rolling up his sleeves on the way. Once there, he looked around, as if for the first time. He noticed the feminine looking pots and bottles, and stood for a moment, thinking.

As they were eating the delicious pie, Patrick decided to get his son's opinion.

"Tim?"

"Hmm?" Tim's mouth was full of pie.

"I was thinking. Some of Mummy's things are still in the bathroom. We don't have any use for them. Perhaps it's time to clear them away?" Patrick looked expectantly at Tim, not realizing he was holding his breath in anticipation of his son's reaction.

Tim looked up from his pie, thoughtful. "Well, I still miss Mummy sometimes, but I don't get sad when I look at her things anymore. And I don't feel sad thinking that I won't see them in the flat. So, it would be okay if you want to give her things to someone who can use them."

Sometimes his son's maturity surprised him. He'd have to remember this conversation the next time Timothy's rambunctiousness got the better of him. After they were finished eating, Patrick got a box, and as Tim passed him each of Marianne's pots of lotion and bottles of tonic, he carefully placed them into it. He decided he would take it to Nonnatus House the next day. The nuns would know of a needy woman or two in Poplar who would gratefully receive these little treasures.

 _Sunday, September 14, 1958_

 _Dear Sister,_

 _It may surprise you to hear I have prayed for your safe return daily. I don't pretend to have much credit with God, but I imagine yours to be excellent. I hope He will hear prayers for you, even if they come from me._

 _At first I prayed for your recovery, and I still do, though that seems more assured with every day that passes. Now I pray also for your return to Poplar. I know that's a selfish prayer, though I know your patients miss you too, as do the nuns and nurses. Speaking of patients, Mrs. Bartlet had a baby girl (at 36 weeks, if you're keeping track, but healthy), and Mrs. Hardy (formerly Miss Patel, they were married last week) had a healthy girl too._

 _I hope I hear from you soon, or, even better, that you are able to return to us before long._

 _Yours,_

 _P. Turner_


	8. Chapter 8

She was not reading his letters. That was the only conclusion he could draw from her continued silence. Sister Bernadette was not a cruel person, in fact she was completely the opposite. Nor was she generally reticent – in fact, she was a straightforward person. She wasn't particularly verbose, but she said what needed to be said. Given all he knew of her, he couldn't believe she would simply read his letters and put them aside without replying. That left two options: she wasn't reading his letters because she had feelings for him, and was too conflicted to bring herself to read his words. Or, she was throwing his letters away without opening them. He found himself going over and over their interactions over the past few months. He hadn't imagined everything, had he? All the little moments, the electricity that stretched between them, it was all real. Wasn't it?

How he longed for someone to talk to. The irony was, the person he longed to talk to about all this, was her. The closest they had ever come to talking about what might be between them was that day in the kitchen of the parish hall. She hadn't condemned him for taking such an intimate liberty. In fact, she implied heavily that it was her vows keeping her from him, not her own feelings.

Patrick decided to write her again. If she wasn't reading his letters anyway, perhaps that gave him license to be more open about his feelings.

 _Wednesday, September 17, 1958_

 _Dearest Sister,_

 _I'm not sure why I'm continuing to write you. You've given me no indication that my letters are welcome, or even you are reading them. At this point I have to conclude you are not. But I feel a desire to remain connected to you, even if the connection is only in my mind._

 _I know I owe you an apology, both for continuing to write when you've given me no encouragement, and for my actions at the summer fete. The truth is, I think about that moment during the quiet moments of every one of my days. I know I should be horsewhipped for saying so, but the memory of your hand in mine has stayed with me. Sometimes I think I'd give anything to feel that again._

 _The almost certain knowledge that you are not reading my letters has made me brave enough to tell you that. If by some chance you are reading, please forgive me. I know you are pledged to God, and I accept that. I just wanted to acknowledge, even if only to the void, how I feel._

 _Yours always,_

 _P._


	9. Chapter 9

There were whole moments, minutes at a time even, when Patrick was able to forget about Sister Bernadette, able to stop, just for a little while, fretting about how she was, about how she felt. About how he felt. At other times, he thought he might crawl out of his own skin for want of her, for want of knowing what she was doing, what she was thinking. What she was feeling.

As he hung his overcoat on the rack in the surgery, Timothy was going through the mail. "It's from Sister Bernadette, in the Sani-Sani-"

"Sanitarium," Patrick corrected, his heart suddenly beating wildly. Had she written back to him at last? Had she read his last letter? He suddenly felt very warm. As Tim ripped the envelope open, Patrick realized she had written to his son, not to him. Perhaps she'd written to them both, and just addressed the envelope to Timothy? He approached the desk as Tim pulled a card from the envelope. It appeared to be a watercolour painting.

"It's a picture!" Tim exclaimed. "Called 'The View From My Window.' She says 'Thank you very much for the dead butterfly, I have passed it on to the doctors here, and I am awaiting their verdict." Tim smiled up at his father, who was impatient to know if Sister Bernadette had anything else to say – anything for him, at all?

Tim went on. "Thank your father for his kind letters. I shall reply to them in due course." Tim seemed puzzled. Patrick certainly was. That was all she had to say? What did "in due course" mean? She had called the letters kind. That at least suggested that she wasn't angry with him. Did she need time, to consider his last letter? To consider her own feelings? Could he dare to hope she might indeed have feelings for him? Or was it more likely that she was trying to find a way to let him down gently? To remind him that she was, after all, married to God? That what he hoped for and dreamed about was impossible? Had he done nothing but make things awkward for her, make her feel that she would not be able to return to Poplar without being accosted by him and his inappropriate feelings? Did she think he would make advances?

Suddenly the enormity of her response hit him: Oh God, she had read his letters.

 _Sunday, September 21, 1958_

 _Dearest Sister Bernadette,_

 _You've read my letters. I'm not sure if I am full of elation, or dread._

 _I want you to know, I've been thinking a lot about our last interactions, before you went into the sanitarium. I realize that you were trying to put a distance between us, and it must seem, from my letters, that I didn't respect that. I want you to know that I do. I respect you, and will respect your wishes, whatever they may be. I don't know why I wrote that – you made your wishes clear already. Perhaps I just have hope, however futile, that my feelings are not completely one-sided._

 _When you come back to Poplar, I will keep a respectful distance. I don't want you to be uncomfortable or to feel you have anything to fear from me. I wish only for your return to Poplar and to Nonnatus House. Well, the truth is, I wish for other things too, but I will keep those wishes in my heart._

 _Yours always,_

 _P._


	10. Chapter 10

Patrick smiled, thinking of the origami frog lesson he had led with Timothy's Cubs group. It was so rare he got to join in on Tim's activities like that (even if he had been late), and it felt good to utilize a skill that wasn't medical in nature. The boys had seemed to enjoy it. He gathered the last two pipettes and placed them in the box of equipment he had collected for Tim to count, inventory, and clean. He knew Tim didn't enjoy this particular chore, but he did enjoy earning money, so it worked out for all involved.

The phone rang. "Morning," Patrick answered nonchalantly, assuming it would be a patient or midwife.

"I've been discharged," a small voice spoke on the other end of the line.

"Sister Bernadette?" Patrick replied, unsure of what he was hearing.

"I'm supposed to go to Chichester, but I won't."

"Why is that?" Patrick asked, mostly for something to say. Why had she telephoned, instead of writing?

"I thought-" she breathed in, "for a long time, that I was in the wrong place. I wasn't. I was just living the wrong life."

Patrick leaned on the desk. Was he hearing what he thought he was hearing? "I wrote to you."

"Yes." Her tone was open, inviting.

"I don't know if I said too much, or not enough."

"You said - what was necessary, and I'm coming back to Poplar."

Patrick smiled with relief at her words. She was coming home. "When?"

"Today," she replied, breathing deeply.

"You need to rest, to convalesce." Patrick was incredulous.

"I've had enough rest to kill a mule," she insisted, "and I know my own mind for the first time in many months, which I find remarkably invigorating."

Patrick smiled. Oh, how he had missed her.

"I'm on my way to catch the bus."

"You are not travelling thirty miles by public transport!" Patrick insisted. "Sister Bernadette –"

"Forgive me," she interrupted, "but I don't answer to that name anymore."

Patrick was speechless, but before he could formulate a reply, Nurse Noakes appeared at his door, asking for his assistance with Dolly Smart. Sometimes he cursed his job. "I'm sorry," he said into the phone, "I really am, but duty calls."

"I understand" she replied, and before he could say anything else, she had hung up the phone.

Patrick's mind raced as he examined Dolly Smart. She had called him. She had called him to tell him she was being discharged. She was not angry. She was not Sister Bernadette anymore? What did that mean? A tiny voice inside him whispered that she had forsaken her vows, that she wasn't a nun anymore, that she had done it for him! He was not a vain man. He knew that if she had indeed abandoned her vocation, it had been for lots of reasons, not just for him.

He told himself not to hope too much, that there could be a lot of reasons for her to say what she said. The main thing was, she could not take a bus thirty miles home to Poplar. She was still weak, and her immune system was still recovering. Who knew what manner of germs and diseases she would be exposed to on a public bus? There was nothing for it. He had to go and get her, bring her home himself. The rest would work itself out in time, one way or another. Dolly Smart was settled, Nurse Noakes was more than capable of looking after her, and Nurse Lee would arrive shortly. Patrick raced to the car.

He found Timothy there, wanting to come on his rounds. "We're not going on my rounds," Patrick explained.

"Then where are we going? Can we get some chips?" Timothy was hopeful.

"No. We're going to find Sister Bernadette. She's been released from the sanitarium. She said she'd take the bus home, but she shouldn't, so we have to find her and bring her home ourselves." Patrick mind reeled. She wasn't Sister Bernadette anymore, that's what she said. But he had nothing else to call her – he didn't know her real name, and had no way of explaining all this to his son right now. He just had to find her. Then all would become clear.

As they raced out of Poplar and onto the rural roads that surrounded London, Timothy chattered away – it was an adventure for a boy of his age. They rarely left Poplar. Patrick barely registered any of Tim's words – his mind was roiling, his stomach was full of butterflies, and question after question formed in his thoughts. Where could she be? What if it rained, or if she got lost? What if he couldn't find her? What if she wasn't well enough to travel? What if something happened to her? And there were other, more personal questions – why had she called him? Had she renounced her vows? Had she done it for him? Did she share his feelings after all? What would happen next?

Patrick concentrated on the road – it would hardly do to have an accident on the way to rescue Sister Bernadette. How he longed to know what to call her now – she seemed adamant on the phone that was not her name anymore, but hadn't said what to replace it with. He realized he was on the lookout for her habit and wimple, but perhaps she wouldn't be wearing that anymore. What would she look like in ordinary clothes? He felt warm all over, thinking about seeing the shape of her, her skin, her hair.

"Dad! There's a woman in the wrong clothes and I think it's her!" Patrick peered into the mist, trying desperately to see what his son had spotted. As he looked down the road, a figure appeared in the mist. It was a woman, petite by the looks of things, and wearing clothes that reminded him of the years after the end of the war. It was her! Patrick brought the car to a stop and told Timothy to stay put. Then he got out of the car and stood for a moment, taking in the sight of her. A million little details stood out all at once: how tiny she looked in ordinary clothes. Her gilded hair (at last! He could stop wondering what it looked like. It was a beautiful golden colour, and so exactly what he had imagined), the fact that she wasn't wearing a coat – it was not a warm day! She'd clearly been walking for a while, and carrying two suitcases. He felt himself approach her. He was desperate to touch her, almost to ensure she was real, and then his instincts took over, and he placed a hand to her forehead. She gave him a small smile, as if to say "Do as you must, Doctor Turner." Her skin was reassuringly cool and dry. Without thinking, he took off his overcoat and placed it around her shoulders. He was struck again by how tiny she was.

"What if it had started raining? What if you had got lost?" He didn't want to interrogate her, but thoughts of everything that could have gone wrong filled him.

"I was lost. I got the wrong bus," she replied, not taking her eyes from his. He felt as though he could stare into her eyes forever.

"I was on the right road." _Thank God._

"Yes." She gave him a small smile. He felt as if the sun was shining just on him. "I know you so little, but I couldn't be more certain." That was it. The fulfillment of all his hopes and wishes over the past several months. She was sure. Of him.

"I am _completely_ certain. And I don't even know your name." Patrick felt light-headed, as though none of this was really happening.

"Shelagh," she said, a bit shyly. Her name was Shelagh.

"Patrick." He replied. He wouldn't be Doctor Turner to her for one more day.

"There," she said, her voice seemingly full of hope, "we've made a start."

Patrick stood and looked into her eyes ( _Shelagh!_ his brain repeated over and over. _Her name is Shelagh!_

Timothy's voice interrupted their shared reverie. "Dad! Are you going to stand there all day? You said we were coming to bring Sister Bernadette home!"

Shelagh broke into a grin, and Patrick returned it. He turned and put a hand at the small of her back, just a small gesture, but one he wouldn't have dreamed of if she'd still be in her habit. Shelagh started towards the car, and Patrick let her go, stopping to pick up her suitcases. Timothy hopped out of the car, holding the door open for Shelagh, who got into the passenger seat. Timothy went around the car and got into the backseat. Patrick put Shelagh's cases in the truck, and got behind the wheel. He stole a glance at Shelagh. She sat primly in the passenger seat, hands in her lap. Patrick felt his face break into a huge grin. Everything he wanted, sitting close enough for him to reach out and touch.

Timothy began pelting Shelagh with questions. "What was the sanitarium like?

"Very restful, thank you Timothy. How have things been at home?"

"Boring mostly. But Dad did show us how to make an or-i-gami frog." Timothy stuttered over the words. "You get to blow in it's bottom at the end. Why are you dressed like that?"

"Timothy!" Patrick chided, though secretly he wanted to hear the answer. "Shelagh is tired and probably just wants some quiet."

"Who's Shelagh?" Timothy asked, without guile.

"I am," replied Shelagh. "Shelagh Mannion is the name I was born with. The reason I'm dressed like this is that the way I used to dress, the habit, was symbol of my vocation as a nun, and I'm not going to be a nun anymore." Patrick's heart leapt. She had confirmed not only that she shared his feelings, but that the obstacle between them, her vows, would no longer be an issue.

"So…. you're not Sister Bernadette anymore? You're Shelagh?" Timothy confirmed.

"That's Miss Mannion to you, Timothy," Patrick chimed in. Shelagh smiled and nodded.

"So, Miss Mannion," Timothy intoned, "where are you going to live now? Isn't the convent just for nuns? Or are you going to be a nurse now?" Tim was certainly hitting all the bases.

"I'm not sure," Shelagh replied. "I don't think I'll be living at Nonnatus House anymore, so I'll have to find lodgings somewhere."

"Why don't you want to be a nun anymore? Is it because you weren't allowed to have any fun?"

"Tim, that's a very personal question," Patrick chided, while Shelagh smiled beside him.

"It's all right. I don't mind. That is a very complicated question though Timothy, but the simple answer is that I wanted a different life than the one I was living." She glanced at Patrick, a blush coming over her face.

"That's what I thought. Being a nun seems awfully boring to me." Tim had a mischievous look on his face.

"That's enough now, Tim. Miss Mannion needs to rest." Patrick's voice was firm. She did need rest, despite what she'd said on the phone.

They were silent for the rest of the ride back to Poplar, and when they entered that part of London, Patrick turned to Shelagh and asked where she would like to be taken.

"Nonnatus House, please, Patrick." She seemed to enjoy saying his name.

When they pulled up, Patrick went around and opened the door for her. "Do you want me to come in with you?" His voice was soft.

"No, thank you. But may I ask a favour?" She looked up at him. He was reminded again how tiny she was. She seemed so much smaller out of her habit.

"Anything," he replied.

"Will you keep my cases? Just until I find some lodgings, which I'll do as soon as I'm finished here. They got quite heavy while I was walking, and I'd rather not repeat that experience."

"Of course." He spoke gently. "Would you like me to wait here for you?"

"No, thank you, Patrick." Oh, the thrill of hearing her say his name. "I'm sure you have other things to do."

Guilt crept over him. In fact, he had neglected his rounds today. "Nothing that can't wait. Well, I'll leave you to it then. You know where to find me." Patrick resisted the urge to kiss her – it was way too soon for that, but the urge was strong. Instead, he gave her a smile, and stood by the car while she headed into Nonnatus House. He imagined there was some formal process she had to go through, to renounce her vows. He supposed she didn't have much by way of possessions to pack.

As Patrick headed around the car, he caught Timothy's eye. "Chips?" he asked his son.

"Yes please!" replied Tim.

At the chip shop, Tim ate with gusto, while Patrick picked away at his with little enthusiasm. His mind roiled. How did one court a former nun? Was he just supposed to show up at her lodgings, wherever she ended up, and ask her on a date? After all they had been through, after everything she had given up, how could he just… take her to the pictures, or a dance? And what would people say? He shuddered to think about Sister Evangelina's reaction. And the residents of Poplar could be vicious gossips. He hated to think of Shelagh as an object of chatter. There was only one way forward.

"Eat up, son, I need your help with something." He said to Tim, who's mouth was full of chips.

Tim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which Patrick chose to ignore, just this one time. "If it's washing more equipment, you still owe me half a crown for the last batch."

Patrick smiled. "It's not that. I need your help buying a present for Shelagh."

"What kind of present?" Timothy inquired.

"A ring."


End file.
